Jelly Legs
by Zandra Gorin
Summary: Something's wrong with Harry's magic. Draco thinks he might just know how to fix it. (Or: Draco's been low-key flirting this whole time and Harry's still oblivious. Until he's not.)


**A/N: **So many WIPs. So many. But here's a little one-shot because I suddenly feel inspired enough to actually write something. And because it makes me feel good to drarry again. XD Unbeta-ed. As always, all Harry Potter canon characters belong to JKR. Thank you for reading! Comments/Favorites/Bookmarks make my day.:)

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"I don't plan for these things to happen, you know."

He should have stayed home for a while longer. He should have just stayed at his flat and went back on the first day of term, like he has always done for the past three years.

Harry does not even remember why he accepted Minerva's invitation to come back to Hogwarts earlier than planned, if not only to get a head start on lesson plans and to gather his wits about him in preparation for the coming term.

"I don't know what's more distressing: that I'm so used to these things happening that it no longer surprises me, or that I know you well enough to believe you."

Harry bites back a sigh as he is half-dragged towards the hospital wing with one, lean arm around his waist.

See, if he had stayed at home then he would not be in this mess in the first place. If he had stayed at home, then he would not have had to spend the remainder of the holidays in such close proximity with Draco and he would not have had to deal with all of these unfortunate circumstances.

"Normal people wouldn't find either situation distressing," Harry answers.

"Normal people do not attempt to transfigure themselves into part-squid, part-scarhead."

"It wasn't on purpose," Harry says, with an air of someone who has just admitted defeat. He does not even bother to be worked-up about the all too familiar jibe about his forehead. He doesn't even think that it counts as an insult anymore, on both ends.

"And that makes it so much better, does it?" the elegant drawl is tinged with exasperation, and Harry doesn't know whether to make good use of the wiggling things on his head and strangle the git, or to slump against the arm that was keeping him standing. "You should have listened to Minerva."

Or maybe it was all Draco's fault in the first place.

Harry could have accepted the invitation from Minerva, and Draco, instead of accepting his own invitation and coming back to Hogwarts two days after Harry arrived, should have just stayed at home with his son and stretched out the remainder of their time together before the term starts.

"It's not as bad as it looks, Draco," Harry sighs.

"You have things growing out of your head that are worse than your hair, which is quite a remarkable feat even for you," he says, in an afterthought, "And your legs are useless, slimy, lumps of jelly."

Harry tries not to roll his eyes and quip some remark about Draco's ability of stating the obvious and unnecessary.

"Tentacles," Harry says as one, grey tentacle wraps itself around Draco's leg, almost making the both of them fall over.

"Yes, those," Draco mutters, trying to shake off the one tentacle that was still looping itself around his leg. He raises a pale eyebrow, "You needn't have gone through all this trouble just to grope me, you know."

Harry tries not to sound too indignant. "I'm not doing it on purpose, you git."

"Well. They are _your_ limbs," he says with a roll of his eyes.

But then he looks at Harry and though his tone is all wry amusement and maybe disgust at the little, squiggly bundles on Harry's head that makes him look like the evil sea witch, Harry thinks that he sees a flash of concern as grey eyes take him in from head to toe.

They wobble around a corner, and with Draco's attention otherwise occupied, Harry's other tentacle almost topples over the suit of armour. Draco releases a drawn out sigh. He resumes their trek to the hospital wing, albeit not as steady as before. It appears that for the moment, he has given up trying to dislodge the stubborn thing on his leg.

Harry eyes his companion. He notes the faint crease on his forehead, and the way his lips are set in a thin line. Harry sighs, practically hearing the admonishing tone seep through that disapproving expression. "Just spit it out, Draco."

Draco narrows his eyes but says nothing. He merely tightens his hold around Harry's waist and then proceeds to half-dragging him through the open doors of the hospital wing.

To Poppy's credit, her eyes widen only a fraction of a second before she descends on Harry with that all too familiar stern look on her face. "Three days. Why am I not surprised?"

"I actually gave him two days. He did pretty well, considering," Draco quips.

"I'm right here, you know," Harry frowns.

"Yes, very hard to forget what with your jelly thing still attached to my leg, Potter."

Harry does not even bother to correct him anymore. And it isn't as if he wants to have his tentacle all wrapped around Draco's leg. Well. Not entirely. But he would have removed it by now if he had any idea how.

"Set him down on the bed, then, Draco."

Draco sits him down gingerly atop the hospital bed, and the both of them let out a relieved breath. Harry feels parts embarrassed and parts guilty about the fact that Draco had to half-drag, half-carry him to the Hospital Wing— he wasn't exactly feather-light, despite being on the lean, almost thin side— but he thinks about the disappointment shooting through his veins about how he has to stay on the bed, without Draco's warm, steady arm around him, now that they were here, and the guilt almost overwhelms whatever embarrassment Harry thinks he should be feeling right about now.

Of course, thinking about their trip to the Infirmary only triggers Harry's thoughts to wander down dangerous paths. He can still feel the ghost of Draco's warm hand on his waist and the lean arm against his back, and he can still smell the scent of cinnamon and coffee that clings to his side, that is so distinctly _Draco _that Harry swears he can—

"Have you noticed anything that sets it off? Anything that aggravates the condition?"

Harry blinks and tries to refocus. He shrugs.

"Yes or no, Mr. Potter. It's a simple enough question."

He tries not to cringe. There's something with the way that Poppy says his name that has Harry feeling as though he is still a student, with no business getting injured or sick or getting partly transfigured into a squid.

He clears his throat. "No."

Poppy narrows her eyes at him, as if she can see through the lie that has just slipped through Harry's mouth.

Because there _is _one thing that aggravates his loss of control.

Harry has spent nights trying to figure out why some of his spells were regressing to botched up, first year attempts; why all of a sudden his magic was trying to make him spontaneously combust with embarrassment at fucking up even the most basic spells. And the answer had come to him just this morning— when a certain blonde had been walking up to him as he was transfiguring a rock by the edge of the lake. Only, by the end of it all, the rock had remained a rock, and Harry... well.

There is one common factor in all the occurrences of wonky magic that has happened to him over the past few days, and he thinks that Poppy's question at this point is merely a formality. She has pieced it together as well, maybe even sooner than Harry has. Still, Harry does not care to admit to the assumption in her eyes when the common factor is sitting beside him, leg wrapped up in his jelly thi— er, tentacle.

Draco must be uncomfortable enough as it is. Even without the knowledge of him playing a part in Harry's spell mishaps.

"Very well," Poppy says in a clipped tone, "I shall transfigure you back to your proper pieces, Harry. But seeing as this is the fourth time this week, I insist that you stay until we work out just what is causing these bouts of... spell malfunction."

Harry knows that he would have to fight her tooth and nail when she uses that tone with him. So despite not being all that ecstatic about a night in the hospital wing, he gives her a weary nod of resignation.

He feels the shiver of magic running through his head and when he raises his hand to check, he breathes a sigh of relief when he feels that the unruly mess was indeed his own hair, and not a bundle of moving, squiggly things.

"Can't say it's much of an improvement," Draco mutters beside him, "But it'll do."

When he looks at Draco, of course the bloody git is smiling at him, eyes sparkling with something that makes his stomach lurch. And after all this time, he's still surprised at how warm and open those grey eyes can be— having only been used to cold, hard glares back in the day.

Harry cannot help but quirk a smile. "I'm glad you approve."

The expression on Draco's face is so open and inviting that it's so bloody hard not to just give in to this constant urge to stare at it openly. Harry always has to convince himself that Draco doesn't know what he's doing to Harry's insides, but sometimes it's so difficult to believe that Draco doesn't do it on purpose. Bloody prick.

"Still not doing it on purpose, Potter?"

Harry blinks at him, reigning down his panic, suddenly wondering if Draco is using Legilimens on him.

Draco raises a pale eyebrow and looks down at something between them. Harry follows his gaze and—

"Oh," Harry feels the heat rush to his cheeks as he quickly disentangles his re-transfigured leg from Draco's. He didn't even feel Poppy transfiguring one leg back to normal, "Sorry, I didn't— I wasn't—"

"It's fine, Harry."

Harry thinks he really could do without the very apparent blush on his cheeks but the sound of his given name rolling off Draco's tongue still makes him feel quite giddy even after three years, and it doesn't really help his situation any.

"I mean, if you wanted me to stay so badly all you had to do was ask."

It is such a disorienting thing, Harry thinks— being in the company of someone who makes him hopelessly enamoured one moment, yet irritated as fuck the next. Or both. At the same time. Like what the arse is doing now.

"Git," Harry snorts, focusing his attention back to Madame Pomfrey's fussing about.

"Really, it's not your fault that you find my leg, well, any part of me really, irresistible," Draco smirks with a quick shrug of his shoulder.

"Remind me again why I don't hate you anymore?" Harry mutters. He wonders if Draco notices how he doesn't really refute his statement.

Draco's voice is so quiet, Harry's certain he would not be able to hear it was he not sitting so close. "You never hated me in the first place."

Harry looks at him in surprise. In his mind's eye he is transported back, and sees a door materializing on the side of an otherwise empty corridor. He remembers mutters of curses and hexes and apologies. He remembers the first shadows of genuine smiles. He remembers outstretched hands, and the sound of that simple sentence on two different tongues:

_'I never hated you'._

And with one look at that intense expression on his face, Harry knows that Draco is remembering that same night, three years ago.

Draco's leg brushes against Harry's, and Harry suddenly finds that his is frozen in place.

"There we are, Harry. All back to normal," Poppy's voice is an unwelcome intrusion to the little bubble Harry suddenly finds himself in.

Harry bites down the urge to inform her that _no_, he is most definitely _not back to normal_, and he doesn't think he will be any time soon. Not with this Draco-_sodding_-Malfoy-induced-turmoil warring with his good sense. If there is any good sense left in him at all, actually.

Harry suspects there isn't much.

"Get some rest. I'll check on you later," he hears Poppy say, and the implied warning to _stay put _is clear in the way that she gives him a lingering look before she turns away and leaves them to their own devices.

"Are you?"

Harry looks back at Draco, and forces him to meet his gaze— which is entirely too close that Harry tenses instinctively just to avoid backing off even slightly. Sometimes he thinks that the git is really hell bent on torturing him just for the heck of it. And he doesn't even know that he's doing it.

"Am I what?"

"Back to normal," Draco mutters.

_Close_. Harry blinks. Draco's so close, Harry can count each eyelash, can see how the grey in his eyes are mixed with specks of blue. Harry has to remind himself how to speak. "For now, I suppose."

"Just now?"

_Closer_. Draco's breath fans over his lips. A warm hand ghosts over his own. Harry's eyes widen and his heart beats wildly against his chest. Harry doesn't know what's happening (not really, he thinks he _does_) but it feels like someone's just cast a tripping jinx on him and he doesn't know which is right-side up any longer.

"I…" Harry's hands are trembling, his body is warming up like a gush of fiendfyre has just set it alight. He really hopes he doesn't set anything on fire. The back of his neck tingles. Sure, steady fingers thread against his. A warm forehead against his.

_Too close_.

"Will you ask me to stay?"

_Oh_.

Harry breathes against the light pressure on his lips. "Yes."

Draco pushes forward. Harry's eyes close.

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Harry's magic mysteriously goes back to normal the following morning.


End file.
